When we first broke up, I didn't sleep for a week straight. I visited a therapist and talked about you for hours and as she listened, I ended my speech with "but I've moved on." She says I clearly haven't and it's obvious I care or else I wouldn't have the energy to talk about you. I guess I know I still care and know I haven't moved on, but with every word I use, I hope I will convince myself that I am done with you.

  I remember reading the ad on the train cart for breast implants and you told me you'd hate me if I got mine done. You said you hoped that I knew that I shouldn't be something I was not. But as I took your advice, you reconsidered your words.

Now every time I pass by your stop, I look down watching the shoes shuffling in, hoping that I see your pair of Moccasins I have engraved in my mind. I remember you watching them ripping at the seams. You said they were too comfortable to throw away. But when you saw me falling apart it didn't feel as comfy as your slippers, so you kept the shoes and got rid of me. And I remember the moles on your back and how I watched them like night sky, and as I touched them I thought this is the closet I'll ever get to touching the stars. And as I watched trees losing their mind in the wind, I found icicles resembling daggers underneath your car. Like everywhere you went you kept secret swords to rip the world to shreds. And I still have the flannel you gave me cause I liked the color and how it brought out the red in your cheeks, and as I stare at each box that makes up the shirt, I remember the checklist we made that night. The checklist of each place we promised to kiss, but now I see it as a checklist for every place you used as an excuse to spit poison down my throat. And you promised you would create art with me and use me like acrylic paint, but the more you used me, I began to turn into watercolors until there was nothing left. And I remember telling you about the stars in the sky and the universe and the way the galaxy traveled throughout my veins as if it were in my blood. But now I can't watch the moon because they remind me of your eyes. I used to find beauty in the milky way, but now it reminds me of the cruelty in your movements.

  I remember going to a street a fair that summer... I remember watching a plain stick being created into a masterpiece as it turned into cotton candy. We watched the stick together as it turned in perfect harmony, creating the only treat that could resemble a cloud. I remember my pupils becoming so involved with the creation that I swore I felt my eyes becoming the masterpiece in front of me. But I knew my eyes were still brown. I knew that I could never give you the beauty you wanted to see. I knew you would never feel so involved with me that I could become the pupils of your eyes. And as the cotton candy melted in your mouth, I knew that I never would.